


Just My Babbles

by barakitten



Category: nothing - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barakitten/pseuds/barakitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just some of my random pieces</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Though, that was the problem.  
It's like there were two of him, two completely different personalities. The one he has on for the boys, the cameras, the world. Then there's the one only he knows about. The one where he can't muster up a hint of a smile or even a tear. He's just empty, no feeling.  
And really, that's what started all of it.  
The worst thing is not feeling sad or depressed. The worst thing is not feeling anything at all.  
So when he drug that cheap, rusty blade across his unmarked skin, he was shocked.  
He could feel it.  
He felt the pain.  
He could finally feel something, and it was just because of a cheap high off of some sharp metal.  
It was amazing, really. Exhilarating, keeping that big of a secret from everyone who seemed to care about him and love him.   
He had control over who would know about his silly little habit, control over himself.  
And when that one loud, obnoxious girl from gym class mentioned something that winter, he would just turn over his arm and brush it off. Pretend those eight deep, straight lines weren't something to worry about.  
Because really, he wasn't worried.  
And then when he was brushing water off his face, his bracelets would ride up a bit and that weird boy standing next to him would mention it, looking at him pointedly and mentioning something about how those better not be self inflicted. But he smiled and covered the red with the black bracelets, covering his nervousness with fake happiness.  
But then it would really hurt when he's with friends and that boy sitting behind says loudly about how he really hopes those aren't cuts, and he just keeps going while everyone stares at the boy with the pained smile.  
So, he needed a better plan.  
He started slicing the skin of his hips.  
Easy enough to hide, little pink scars under thin fabric.  
And no one noticed, so he continued.  
And then he discovered the sensation of skin burning from the touch of a lighter, the heated metal to the skin of his wrist.  
It was lovely.  
The addiction to pain continued, along with some marijuana sprinkled in there occasionally.  
He was slowly destroying himself.  
He loved it.  
And eventually, when he was found in a puddle of red, the life drained out of him, it was because of that one reason.  
He downed that bottle of pills and hacked his wrists because he was sick of not being able to feel anything for the past few years of his life.  
He was high on the pills and the pain in his arms was so far past fucking amazing. In his last few minutes alive, he was finally, finally happy.   
And it was worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

Do you ever feel like you're not you? I mean, I'm used to looking at my body and knowing what's where and stuff. But when I look in a mirror or something reflective, I'm confused. That's what I look like? How?  
How do people like me if I don't know who I am or what I consist if or how my mind makes a fake appearance for me?  
My face feels different from the inside, that's what I look like when I do that?  
I'm someone different physically and maybe even mentally and I don't like to look at that person. I don't like to look in the mirror and have my beautiful fake appearance created by my mind destroyed by a simple piece of glass.  
My mind makes me feel beautiful and stunning with something false.  
And I don't know what to think about this.


	3. Chapter 3

Those webs and patterns across my wrists and thighs like to remind me of my true self. Not the one that smiles and jokes and has witty comebacks. The self that wanted to die so bad in the darkest season, the self that can't find anything to love in this terrifying body I'm going to be in for the rest of my life. And it's that person that takes over on nights like this, where I stay up reading the beautifully horrific words that seem to comfort me. Where I stay up to study the new pattern of red lines etched into my skin. Where I stay up remembering and hypothesizing about other people and distant memories.   
Those webs of white remind me that I'm not a happy person, and I should stop pretending.  
Those patterns remind me about how many piercings and tattoos I want because that's an acceptable pain in our society. Because it's not right to cut up your own skin on nights when you need to feel something so you know you're still here.  
Feel something so you know you're not as broken as you believe you are.


	4. Chapter 4

Try locking yourself in your room.  
Try placing a blade across your skin just to tear it open the next second.   
Try isolating yourself, not trusting any of your friends or family.   
Try pushing away everyone who means something to you.   
Try scratching at your itching skin, wanting to be sliced open again and again.   
Try taking a whole bottle of sleeping pills, because you never want to wake up again.   
Try jumping off a building or an overpass, to feel the adrenaline before dying.  
Try placing a gun to your head, scared you'll stain the wall behind you.   
Try taking one more deep breath before submerging yourself in water forever.   
Try tying that final knot in your final rope before you hang it.   
Try writing those final words on that piece of paper that you've saved for so long.   
Try wanting to die.   
It will change your perspective on _everything_.


	5. Him.

I hate him.  
That’s the first thought, emotion, reply to the mention of his name.  
I hate his face, his personality, his annoying voice, his stupidly blue eyes, his frame that towers over me by an inch, his fucking dimples, and most of all his soft lips and the words that came out of them.  
You’re cute.  
Fucking adorable.  
I just want to kiss you forever.  
I want to snuggle with you.  
I’m going to hug you all day.  
Cuddle?  
I love you.

And I knew with those three words I knew that you had taken my heart, and smashed it in the process.

Asshole.  
Douchebag.  
Fucker.  
Shithead.  
Dick.  
Adorable.

You talked about what would happen three months from then, when I would be gone for 8 weeks. So optimistic that I would still smile at the mention of your name then.  
That I definitely would not be hating when that name comes from anyone’s mouth.

But I guess that’s what happens when you pretend.  
You pretend you love me.  
You pretend you don’t shoot glances at someone next to me.  
You pretend you care about when your name is slashed red onto a white canvas with the sky black above us while you whisper and hold me.  
You pretend to care about if I show up to school the next day with a sweatshirt although it is far too hot.  
You pretend you aren’t ripping away at my heart as you dance around me telling me all your filthy lies that someday will fall apart.  
You pretend you actually want me.

So, that was the fault in our short time together.  
And I pretended I was okay when I saw you doing all of this to the person who used to be next to me.  
So yes, I hate you and all of your entirety. I hate what you fucking did to me.  
And I hate that I still think about you like this.


	6. Chapter 6

The sad fucking thing is that depression and cutting and suicidal thoughts are so fucking common where I live. People romanticize self harm and say things like, "I would love someone with scars. They're beautiful."  
No.  
Fighting an internal battle with yourself every fucking day and having to physically harm yourself because of it is not beautiful. It's fucking sad and horrible and it should not be a thing.  
I sometimes find my mind falling into places where I think my scars are beautiful. But that's only because my mind is so fucked up that I like to destroy myself and what I could be.  
But 2/3 of my friends have depression and they self harm and I'm so fucking disappointed in the world and how human beings are treating other human beings. It pisses me off.  
And those fucking people that go around school and social media showing cuts and burns and bruises to everyone just so they get fucking attention. No.  
If you want attention, do something positive. Don't fucking cut your wrists and expect people to love and pity you. Because you will be put in your place and you will be called an attention whore.  
God, I want to fucking change the world and get rid of all this fucking shit. Because no one deserves any of this.


	7. Chapter 7

I just don't understand.  
Why do people love each other so much, just to be let down?   
Why do people care so much, just to be pushed away?  
Why do people think it's not okay, a sin if you will, to physically harm yourself to try to harm the monster inside?  
The moster is the cause.   
People think it's because you're insane. I'm not insane.  
The monster on the inside is what makes me this way.  
"We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realised they were inside of us."  
"As we got older, the monsters crept from under our beds to inside our heads."  
The monster makes my skin itch, crave the feeling of the sharp metal peircing it. It makes me wonder if this is all worth it in the end.   
Life. Is it all worth it?  
"Death is God's way of saying you're fired. Suicide is people's way of saying I quit."  
Would it be so bad if I left? Would it really matter?  
Does it matter if I let myself destroy my skin just to know I'm alive? To make sure I'm not numb? To feel something, even if it's pain?  
"I hurt myself today to see if I could feel. I focused on the pain, the only thing that's real."  
People are stunned when they find out. Why? It's my body, my pain. I cause the pain to myself, on purpose, there's no reason to get mad at me for doing it.  
"Every scar has a story behind it."  
"You know my name, not my story."  
My story isn't one of the worst, I know that. There's rape, abuse, ect. I have a great life compared to all that. But, I'm still sad, depressed, suffering silently.  
"And one day, I was just.... sad."  
I was bullied. Physically, mentally, emotionally.I pushed people away.  
I'm depressed.I don't remember becoming depressed and sad. It just... happened.  
I remember when I was little, not a care in the world. Just waiting for the next day's adventures to roll around. I wanted so bad to grow up, to be able to do what I wanted and to be the happiest person in the world.  
But that's not reality.  
"Remember when we were kids and we couldn't wait to grow up?.... What the hell were we thinking?"  
I wanted so bad to be on my own and to have a happy life.  
But life isn't always happy. It hardly ever actually works out like that.  
Fairy tales and happy endings don't exist anymore.  
Only in books and movies, aka, the fictional world, far away from us.  
Those only existed when we were little, now we just hope and wish for them.  
We wish to be happy, for it all to work out. But inside, deep inside, we know it won't.We know we'll only end up putting that blade back to our skin, holding the lighter to ourselves, laying our hands forcibly on our bodies, banging our heads to try to make sense of everything, ending our pain.  
Ending our pain, putting the gun to our head, slicing deep with the sharp metal, drinking until we're gone, swallowing the pills, jumping off, running in front of that car, tying that final noose.  
We can't always choose how everything happens, but we can choose if we want to end all of that. We can choose how. We can even choose when.  
I can choose when, and now sounds like a damn good time.


	8. Chapter 8

And quite frankly, you deserve someone who knows how to comfort and doesn't apologize about everything. You deserve someone who can make you feel special just by the look they give you and know how to make you feel perfect in the deepest sense of the word. You deserve someone who won't ignore your texts if they're not feeling up to it and who will put you before almost everything else. You deserve someone to hold you as tight as they can and whisper half formed "I love you"s as you're falling asleep. You deserve someone who will not be ashamed to tell people that you're their addiction and need you because not only are you beautiful, but you're a powerful drug pulling them deeper and deeper into oblivion.  
You deserve someone better than me.


	9. Chapter 9

All of these trivial things mean fucking nothing. Our existence is pointless. Petty dramas and passing grades are absolutely shit.  
Humans barely even exist. We are confined to this unimaginable sliver of the universe and there is really no point.   
We are born to live in this stupid world with its stupid expectations just to fucking die in a few years. My brain can't fucking handle thinking about it.  
I literally have no purpose in this world. No one does. My problems literally only concern 1-2 people out of the whole entire population of the entire universe. Yes, it would fucking hurt my family if I died, but why? They knew me for 14 short years, but never actually knew me. I'm a fucking speck in all of space and time, and I don't fucking matter.  
No one fucking matters.


	10. Chapter 10

And really, I don't care how many red and white lines are on my body by the end of this year. Because it seems I have no respect for the thing my brain inhabits.  
It would seem by my actions that I take joy in destroying something that is totally, completely mine, and will be until I die. and I guess I do.   
Because it's a sickening, satisfying feeling to see a red liquid come to the surface of your once smooth skin. To feel the exhilaration of the pain and beauty of it all.  
It's as simple as that.


	11. Chapter 11

I'm crying and I need to tell someone why and I don't fucking know because first I was thinking of winter and hoodies and cutting and then when I told austin stuff and then austin in general and then what would be different if I was still at Riverview and if I would still be friends with tea if she wasn't a bitch and a list of things worth staying alive for and Damon fizzy was on that list and holy fuck I couldn't speak when I met him and I was shaking and crying because this is Damon, the boy I've watched countless times through a screen, the weirdo who's years older than me and can make me smile and I hugged him, he's so fucking real and I was within 1 mile of him for a whole entire day and I wanted to tell him how much I love him and what he means to me because he has done so much for me but he probably forgot me 20 minutes after seeing me and it fucking sucks that I love him so fucking much and I touched him and held him and I can barely remember what he felt like, a human, breathing being, because all I have left is a piece of paper with his handwriting and a picture of how he smiled and hugged me like he actually knew me and was holding me together because he knew how much I needed it.


End file.
